


Interval

by headrush100



Series: Free Will [4]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Chosen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headrush100/pseuds/headrush100
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Chosen, Giles needs some care and some downtime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interval

Los Angeles.

When it was all over, he would go home. Giles had been promising himself this for weeks, and was genuinely astonished that anything in his life should go off according to plan. But here he was, seat 36C, Virgin Atlantic, LAX to London Heathrow. 

In his carry-on, wrapped in a clean t-shirt, was ‘The Eagle of the Ninth’ and a small, stuffed tiger. Holly had left these on the bus when she’d followed him into the high school two days before.

He’d spent the first night at Wesley’s, where he’d received a kinder reception than he’d probably deserved, given the way Giles had treated him in the past. Off his bloody head though he’d been, he felt a new bond had been forged with his old colleague, and possibly new friend.

Following repeated failed, but appreciated, entreaties for him to stay until his leg was better, Wesley had driven Giles to the Hyperion, where he’d met up with the rest of the survivors. Immediately following the apocalypse, he’d remained very much in ‘we must do this, we must do that’ mode, but faced with the shattered and shell-shocked band that strange, disorientated morning, he’d said sod it; they simply could not go on as they were, and asked each of them in turn where they would choose to go.

Not many of them knew. Faith said she was off to Santa Fe, but he wasn’t entirely convinced. Willow said she’d come out and join him in Bath, but wanted to see her grandparents in Seattle first. Buffy, Dawn, and Xander insisted they were fine, but wanted to stay at the Hyperion for a few days, until they could decide where to go next. The potentials… slayers, now… mostly chose to go home to their families. Giles withdrew sufficient funds from his Council account, and doled out the necessary cash. 

Giles ached to go home, not least because he could not, must not, put off telling Holly’s parents what had happened. They all, bless them, accompanied him to the airport, and it felt horribly like the last time, when he’d left them just when they’d needed him most. But that was past; things were different now. 

Buffy suggested they get coffee, but Giles declined. His leg was paining him, and he needed to sit down. More worrying still was the creeping numbness that pervaded his mind, making him feel ever more remote from everything. He eased himself into a chair in the waiting area. It wasn’t long before Buffy appeared, minus the others. She sat beside him and gave him a small smile, which he returned. Without forethought, he dropped his hand onto her shoulder and kneaded it gently, a gesture as much, if not more, a comfort to himself than to her. 

She patted his good leg, which fortunately was the one closer to her, or else he’d no doubt she would have patted the bad one. “Fire bad, tree pretty?”

He gave a little laugh, but it lasted only a second. How dare he laugh when Holly, and Anya, and so many others were dead. “Yes, very much so.”

“Are you okay, Giles?”

“Yes. Are you?”

She frowned. “That’s not what Wesley said.”

He blinked. “Wesley said you’re not okay?”

“*No,* he said *you’re* not okay. About Holly. And the others, but especially Holly.”

“Ah.” 

“I just wanted you to know… I’m not okay about it either.” 

He shook his head, momentarily at a loss for words. He could feel Holly’s small, solid head in his hands as he tried to hold her in a way that wouldn’t hurt. He felt the softness of her hair; the searing jolt of energy that connected them for what seemed far too long a time for it to take, and her body’s single violent convulsion. “I… There was nothing… I didn’t know what else to do… If I’d left her the Bringers would have…” They would have tortured and mutilated her further, at the very least, had she lasted long enough.

Buffy’s fist closed around his sleeve, turning him towards her. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she twisted round in her seat and put her arms around him. “I know, Giles. You did the right thing.”

He nearly lost it then, but it wouldn’t do to break down; the others would be along any time. When had she become the one to reassure? He drew her in and rested in her strength for a moment. “I don’t know what the right thing to do was, or if a ‘right’ option even existed. It came down to a choice between a humane death from me, or a brutal one from the Bringers.” 

“I know. I saw her in the basement, with the axe in her chest. Poor kid. I’m so sorry Giles. I know you had a soft spot for her.” She smiled a little. “And she had the biggest crush on you.”

Ridiculously, he flushed. “Don’t be daft.”

She grinned. “Totally. No accounting for taste, huh?”

He grinned back, and suddenly remembered the look on Holly’s face the first time he’d asked her to look for a reference in a watcher’s diary and she’d actually found it. She’d been so excited, so eager to show him, so hungry for his approval. Had he been appreciative enough, or had he been distracted? He couldn’t remember. The lump in his throat grew so that he could hardly speak. “She trusted me, and I killed her.”

“You spared her from unnecessary fear and suffering. You did the right thing,” she repeated. “You didn’t kill Holly; the Bringers did. Nobody blames you, Giles.”

Except, he did. And so would Holly’s parents. He pulled Buffy in and kissed the top of her head. “Thank you.”

Buffy leaned against him a moment longer than he’d have expected, and said quietly, “I’m also not okay with us. I mean, with me. With the way I’ve been treating you –“

“Buffy…” he really wasn’t up to this just now. He couldn’t trust himself to have a conversation this important, this complicated, this fraught with potential for disaster.

She shook her head. “It’s okay. I’m not up for it either, but I would like to talk to you about it sometime…” She glanced up, almost shyly, “If that’s okay with you.”

He nodded. “It’s okay with me.”

They’d all gathered to say goodbye at the gate, but it was a strangely unemotional parting. They were all beyond it, though the impulse was genuine.

Now, disorientated by not knowing where he was or what time it was on top of everything else, Giles shifted uncomfortably in his economy-class seat and flexed his stiffening shoulders. Of course his actions were justifiable, but now, alone, beyond exhausted, and hurting in a dozen places, that didn’t change the way he felt. He drifted into a fitful doze, haunted by the look on Holly’s face when she brought him a cup of tea when he was reading late at night, her blatant ploy to be invited to join him; by the way he knew her parents would look when he turned up on their doorstep in the morning. He wouldn’t have to say anything; they would know, they would hate him, and he didn’t blame them.

***

Henley, England.

He told them the truth; that there had been a battle unlike any they’d faced before. They had won, but Holly had died, heroically, fighting at his side. He told them about their early morning conversations and late night research sessions. How impressed he’d been with her intelligence and compassion. How she’d missed them, but never once asked to go home; she knew she belonged, and she knew the risks. How fond everyone had become of her.

Giles explained as much as he could, as well as he could. It had happened three days ago. Yes, he was sure. Up until that moment, he’d planned to tell them the absolute truth of how their only child had died; he owed them that, but when the moment came, he just couldn’t do it. It was simply too horrific. He told them she had received a blow to the head, and died instantly. There was no body, no grave, no marker. There had been an earthquake and all traces of the battle had been destroyed. 

He was so very sorry.

He could not imagine how they could possibly comprehend what he was saying, and indeed it seemed they did not. They probably hadn’t heard much beyond, “There was a battle three days ago; one that was critical to the survival of every creature on this planet. We won, but Holly was killed. I’m so very sorry.”

He watched shock, grief, and finally anger play over their expressions like passing shadows. He suddenly wondered if they’d call the police. He’d have no credible defence. Her father looked as though he wanted to beat Giles senseless. Giles understood the impulse, and, if necessary, was resigned to take the beating. It was the least he could do, and nothing to what he’d survived.

He unzipped his carry-on and brought out the worn old book. Her father stared at it for a moment before his legs gave way and he dropped to the floor in tears. 

There was nothing more to say. Giles gave Holly’s stuffed tiger to her mother and left the couple to their grief. He got into his rental car and drove without direction. Eventually he came to a junction for the M4 and turned west for Bath.

***

Bath.

It was late afternoon by the time Giles pulled up outside his flat. Getting out of the car was far more painful than anticipated, as were the stairs up to the first floor. Giles let himself in, went directly to the sofa, and sat there staring into space for the next three hours, trying to process – subconsciously, as consciously was impossible – the events leading up to this moment, the culmination of his fantasies of home and comfort. There was no comfort here, and he did not feel at home. He didn’t feel anything.

Just as it was getting dark, the doorbell rang, making him jump. He was still wound quite tightly, apparently. He didn’t answer. No one knew he was here, so it had to be someone selling something. A minute later there came a knock on the door. He didn’t answer.

“Giles? It’s me, it’s… Megan.”

“Come in,” he said, trying to lighten and smooth his voice.

The door opened and he turned his head to see her standing in a shaft of dying sunlight, her hands full of bags that she dumped on the floor. She looked at him for a moment, and in that instant he knew she knew. 

“Hello, you.”

“Hello, love.” He smiled, and started to stand. She closed the space between them in a matter of seconds, and urged him back down. “Stay where you are.” She bent, took his face in her hands, and kissed him, soft and intense, so that for a moment the kiss was all he knew.

He remembered this; remembered love, remembered pleasure, and smiled his gratitude.

“I won’t ask how you are.”

“Good.”

“I got the text you sent from Willow’s phone, and I tried to call you back, but I got Willow. She told me some of what happened the other day, and she told me some of what Wesley told her about the night you spent at his flat.”

He nodded. 

“And then Buffy phoned me from the hotel. And then Xander phoned me from the airport.”

“Christ, what did they do that for?”

She smiled. “They’re very fond of you, you know.” 

Apparently. “So they dispatched you to check up on me.”

“I see that mighty brain is yet undiminished.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

She was looking more the professional healer with every second. “So, how are you?”

“I thought you weren’t going to ask.”

“I lied.”

There was no use denying it. “Shattered.”

“I’m sure.” She brushed a hand through his hair and he leaned into the touch. “Everyone was going on about your leg. What’s the story there?” 

“Glancing blow from a Bringer’s axe.” He was too tired to speak unnecessary words, and he didn’t want to talk about it anyway. He watched her studied non-reaction. So she was in ‘professional’ mode.

“Define ‘glancing’.”

“Wesley stitched it. It’s fine.”

“It didn’t look fine when you tried to stand up just now.”

“Being stuck in a plane and a car for hours on end didn’t help.”

“You know what I’m going to say next, and I know what you’re going to say, so let’s bypass all that and get to the point where I get my way and you’re in bed, undressed, and letting me see to your leg and whatever else is hurting you. Sound good?”

“I’m too tired.”

“You don’t have to do anything, my love. Just lie there and let me take care of you.”

“As the actress said to the bishop.”

She grinned. “I’ll take that as unconditional surrender.”

“If you can get me to bed, you can do whatever the bloody hell you want with me.”

She stood up. “Wait here while I make up the bed.”

***

Stripped to his t-shirt and boxers, Giles eased himself down onto clean sheets in his own bed. It was heaven after Buffy’s crowded house and impossible sofa. He let out a quiet moan of relief.

No more demands were placed upon him from that point. He no longer had to think, only to obey soft commands to allow Megan to take his temperature and pulse, and to do something; he didn’t know and didn’t particularly care what, to his bad leg.

He began to drift. When his awareness encompassed her again, she’d pushed up his t-shirt and was rubbing arnica into the huge purple-black bruises over his ribs. 

“Can you turn onto your side?” she said quietly, not bringing him out of his half-sleep. He did, and again she pushed his shirt out of the way to tend the bruises on his back. It was the most soothing sensation he’d had in a very long time, and he let it carry him off.

When he woke hours later, disorientated and dizzy, she reached for him and he pulling away with a sudden, depressing realisation.

“I’m sorry, I need to be alone at the moment,” he said quietly.

“Giles.”

“Please don’t argue. I’ll be in touch.”

After a moment, her hand brushed over his stubbled cheek. “See that you are.” 

She got dressed, kissed him, and left. The door closed behind her with a soft click, and he was alone in the dark.

He didn’t want to think and he didn’t want to care. He couldn’t take any more, and he had to get away.

 

End.


End file.
